Recently signed Anti recording artist Tim Fite lives alone in a graveyard in Brooklyn,
NY. In this graveyard, there are no headstones, no mausoleums, no flowers, no
plot maps, no sprinklers, no astroturf; there aren't even any dead bodies (as
far as I know). That is, unless you count the stacks and stacks of bargain bin
c.d.'s that are strewed about the apartment, poking out of every nook and cranny
of the otherwise orderly fourth floor walk up. Cd cases clatter around on the
floor like the plastic skeletons of every band you've never heard of, a sobering
display of thousands of discarded, disbanded, or quite simply dissed rock-and-roll
dreams. It seems that Mr. Fite's home may in fact be the place where music goes
to die. However, in the manner of little known physics professor Lawrence Q. Moyer
(whose dissertation on the reinvigoration of dead tissue revolutionized modern
science), Mr. Fite is in fact on a quest to reverse the effects of musical mortality.
In his jewel case graveyard, Tim Fite is reanimating the corpses of the countless
under-appreciated and overlooked songs that, due to misunderstanding and/or maltreatment,
have sadly lost their will to go on.
The result of Mr. Fite's exploration of musical necromancy is an engaging collection
of songs entitled "Gone Ain't Gone." Deeply steeped in the contradictory
traditions of the country and hip-hop genres, "Gone Ain't Gone" bridges
a vast cultural void, connecting a deep seeded respect for our troubled (yet
sonically rich) past with a cavalier glimpse at a half harrowing-half hopeful
(and again sonically rich) future. Although much of the music can be lumped
into the established categories of alt-country and americana music, Tim Fite's
debut album is neither of these things, exactly. Instead, it is the aural manifestation
of simultaneity and contradiction: a hip-hop record that sounds like folk music,
a loop-based record that feels organic, a socialist record that is essentially
anti-social, a prophesy record about the good old days, a concept record with
no concept, an easy record for hard times, a living record made from dead music.
Mr. Fite begins his resurrection process working much like a hip-hop producer,
"sampling" large chunks from his bargain bin cadavers in order to
create a basic foundation for his compositions. Most often, he does this by
reorganizing the structure of one particular song, cobbling all the vocal free
parts together until he has a "new" structure that suits his needs.
Bear in mind, he does not limit himself to short clips of music. At times he
will steal as much as 16 bars of a song with it's full orchestration fully intact
(the only limitation Tim Fite sets for himself is that the records he works
from must never cost more than a dollar). Once the foundation for a song has
been laid, Mr. FIte then fills in the blanks with his own music, fleshing out
the performances of his unwitting collaborators with added instrumentation,
ranging in scope from acoustic guitar to hammer on folding-chair. After the
music has been fully assembled and approved, it is time to infuse the music
with the reinvigorating breath of life.
This life breath is found in the form of Tim Fite's vocals which stand out
as the dominating element of "Gone Ain't Gone." Whether singing with
a lag-beat twang, spitting like a super-mc, or screaming bloody hell from a
burning voice box, Tim Fite seems to always know exactly the right thing to
say and exactly the right time to say it, blending his multiplicity of vocal
styles together seamlessly. It is truly a remarkable feat that he can switch
between such contradictory worlds as old time harmony and straight up rapping
without sounding the least bit contrived. The only explanation for this is that
Mr. Fite himself is an amalgamate of voices, each one as genuine as it's predecessor,
and only through the combination of these voices can he honestly and effectively
communicate his ideas. It is this essential codependence of voices that makes
the eclecticism of Tim Fite's music seem so unabashedly natural.
Some purists, upon hearing how Tim Fite makes his music, might say, "There
is nothing natural about butchering dead songs into living songs. Let them rest
in peace. Write your own music. Stop preying on the carrion of the bargain bin
in order to cover up your own innate lack of talent." Their opinion might
change, however, if they understood the reasoning behind this unorthodox way
of writing songs. Tim Fite was one of a hand full of babies born between 1943
and 1986 without any blood. As a result, he has always been reliant upon a machine
provide him with the blood that so many of us take for granted (the sound of
this machine is a reoccurring theme on "Gone Ain't Gone). In turn, he equates
his relationship to music with his relationship to blood, claiming that both
are wasted too often these days, and that his conservation effort is one of
healing rather than heresy. When listening closely to "Gone Ain't Gone,"
it becomes abundantly clear that this is true. Tim Fite is emulating his blood
machine, and the outcome is a group of living, breathing songs that represent
a wholly unique spirit. I only hope that my band fails badly enough that one
day we end up in Tim Fite's graveyard, next in line for the blood machine.
- Jay Mokes of Gang-Plank
